Chapter Text
At Kimetsu International Academy, hierarchy was absolute.
It wasn’t written in any rulebook, but every student knew it from the moment they stepped through the ornate gates.
Alphas sat at the top. They didn’t just walk the halls; they owned them. Their scents filled the air, sharp and commanding, daring anyone to challenge their dominance. Teachers overlooked their louder voices, their posturing, their fights, because alphas were born to lead. To be feared was to be respected.
Betas were the neutral ground. Balanced, reliable, adaptable. They weren’t courted like omegas or revered like alphas, but they fit easily anywhere. They made up the majority of the student population and were the glue that kept the school running smoothly, slipping between conflicts with ease.
And omegas… omegas were the softest currency. Their beauty was prized, their sweetness a commodity. Wealthy omegas were pampered like porcelain dolls, envied for the protection and attention lavished on them. Others were ignored or pitied. Pretty, delicate, easy to admire, easy to dismiss.
Hierarchy wasn’t just social. It was survival.
Tomioka Giyuu never belonged.
On paper, he was a beta. His scent was faint, forgettable, neutral. But people questioned it. He was too pretty — strikingly so. His face was sharp yet delicate, his long lashes shadowed eyes the colour of clear water, his lips soft and pale pink. His beauty was the kind that drew stares, and some whispered that no beta should look like that.
But whatever curiosity his appearance stirred dissolved quickly once he opened his mouth.
He was awkward. He was blunt. He has autism — though no one at Kimetsu International had the patience or understanding to name it that.
When he tried to speak, his words came out wrong. Too flat. Too direct. Once, a girl had asked if her new hairstyle looked good, and he had answered, “It makes your face look rounder.” He hadn’t meant to offend, but she’d flushed in embarrassment and never asked him anything again. Another time, when a boy asked if he wanted to join for lunch, he’d muttered, “I dislike the sound of loud chewing.” The boy laughed it off, but no one invited him again.
Soon enough, people stopped trying.
By the third year, Tomioka Giyuu was the loner in Class 3-B.
He sat by the window, notebooks lined neatly, handwriting immaculate, gaze turned toward the falling cherry blossoms instead of his classmates. He only replied when directly asked. He never joined conversations. He never offered words of his own.
He was tolerated, not included.
And tolerance, in Kimetsu International, was just another word for weakness.
Weakness made you prey.
And the predators circled in the form of Shinazugawa Sanemi and his gang.
Sanemi was the biggest alpha in the school. Everyone knew him, the shock of white hair, the scarred face, the feral grin. His scent was pine and iron, sharp enough to sting, and his presence dominated every space he entered. His parents’ wealth only made him more untouchable. His father’s construction empire built half the city; his mother’s family owned lands that stretched across the coast.
Sanemi carried power like it was stitched into his skin. And where he went, his gang followed.
Uzui Tengen, all noise and flash, jewellery glinting under the lights.
Iguro Obanai, venom-eyed, words as cruel as his glare.
Kanroji Mitsuri, Obanai’s girlfriend, is soft and kind, though powerless to stop him.
Hashibira Inosuke, wild and reckless, shouts louder than anyone else.
Kocho Shinobu, whose sweet smile hid barbed words sharp enough to draw blood.
Hakuji, calm but unnerving, a steady shadow among chaos.
Together, they were untouchable.
They ruled the halls through fear, through laughter at others’ expense, through dominance no one dared challenge. Their favourite prey were the first-year scholarship students: Kamado Tanjiro and his friends, Nezuko, Zenitsu, Kanao, and Tokito. And Genya Shinazugawa, Sanemi’s own younger brother, had attached himself to Tanjiro’s group despite not being a scholarship student himself.
Sanemi despised him for it.
But above all others, Sanemi and Obanai had one favourite target: Tomioka Giyuu.
It wasn’t just because Giyuu was weak, though everyone assumed he was.
It was because of his eyes.
Most students, when cornered by Sanemi and his gang, broke. They cried. They stammered. They fled. Some bowed their heads, some begged, some tried to fight and failed.
But Tomioka Giyuu did none of that.
He said nothing.
And he glared.
Blue eyes, cold and sharp as ice, stared up at Sanemi in silence.
It wasn’t defiance in the usual sense. No shouts, no arguments. Just the kind of glare that made it clear he refused to bend, refused to acknowledge Sanemi’s words as worth responding to.
And it infuriated Sanemi.
Every time.
That morning, Giyuu stood at his locker, stacking his books in perfect order. Pens aligned along the shelf’s edge. Precision soothed him.
The air shifted. Laughter echoed down the hall, sharp and loud. The heavy weight of alpha pheromones rolled in, filling the space like smoke. Students parted instinctively, stepping back. Giyuu heard and smelled them before he saw them.
The slam of a hand against the locker made the metal clang. Giyuu’s pens tumbled to the ground.
“Well, if it isn’t our favourite little beta ghost,” Sanemi sneered, his grin sharp.
Inosuke bent down, snatched one of the fallen pens, and snapped it clean in half. “Pathetic. Just like him.”
Obanai leaned against the lockers, eyes gleaming. “He still hasn’t said a word. Maybe he’s defective.”
Shinobu tilted her head, voice lilting sweet. “Poor Tomioka. Do you think he even understands what we’re saying?”
The gang laughed.
Sanemi shoved him hard against the lockers. Books slipped from his arms, scattering across the floor. The impact burned against his back, the touch too much, sending his nerves screaming, but Giyuu’s face stayed blank.
He crouched slowly, gathering his things with careful, trembling fingers.
When he rose, his blue eyes locked onto Sanemi’s.
That glare. Cold. Sharp. Unyielding.
Sanemi’s grin twitched, baring teeth. Something hot surged in his chest. Rage, annoyance, something else he couldn’t name.
“Careful, Tomioka, look at me like that again and I’ll rip your face off,” he spat, before shoving past. The gang followed, laughter trailing like smoke.
Giyuu stayed a moment longer, stacking his books into neat order once again. His chest ached, his nerves still burning from the shove.
But he said nothing.
Always nothing.
At lunch, he sat alone under the cherry blossom trees, his bento box neatly divided, rice balls arranged in rows. The petals drifted around him in silence.
Across the courtyard, laughter rose again.
Sanemi’s gang had cornered Tanjiro and his friends.
“Oi, Genya!” Sanemi’s voice carried, sharp and mocking. “Stop hanging around those strays. You’re an embarrassment to the Shinazugawa name.”
Genya stiffened but said nothing. Tanjiro put a hand on his shoulder, steady, protective.
Sanemi scoffed, turning away, his gang laughing along.
From beneath the blossoms, Giyuu watched quietly. His chopsticks paused mid-air. He didn’t move, didn’t intervene. His expression stayed blank.
But his eyes lingered on Genya’s hunched shoulders before he turned back to his meal.
And to the school, Tomioka Giyuu was just a pretty face wasted on a broken, unfriendly beta.